not long after the treaty is drawn, the author of said treaty (did you mean? art) breaks his own agreement and invades my land in the middle of the night, trying to take what is mine.
in other words, another white man is unwilling to abide by rules he set in place. he stands in my kitchen, hand in my fridge - eating my leftover chicken popcorn i bought from kfc three days prior, with my hard earned plantation money.
(this isn't communism/slavery/capitalism, bitch. you can't just take what you didn't work hard for from those who did.)
the only reason he is caught red-handed is because i prefer eating (and almost anything else) to listening to my room-mate cry themselves to sleep, and ever since their phone call with their mother several night's ago that's all sage ever does.
too exhausted to be angry (which is, in many ways, the tag-line of the black experience) i do not shout from the bedroom doorframe i stand at, but rather walk to the other side of the flat and snatch my food out of art's greasy fingers.
the crime scene is as follows:
with the fridge door wide open, a black woman stands (her ground) on the left-hand side of the frame, hugging a kfc bucket against her breasts, her ebony skin dressed only in a black thong and a white crop top (did you mean? she had it coming). her brows furrowed in anger. her glare unwavering, and directed at the other end of the frame.
on the right is the accused. several of his greasy fingers still in his mouth, licking away at the oil (did you mean? getting rid of the evidence). his eyes are wide with hyprocrisy, his hair a little less greasy than his guilty fingers. goosebumps raised on his arms and legs either from the cold of the open fridge, or the fire in the eyes of his accuser. he is both scared and shameless; an oxymoron but not a contradiction when you are as white/privileged as he.
so much so in fact he now stands before the woman whose boyfriend he had an affair with. a tale i'd expect to be my mother's not mine (am i the protagnist or the antagonist? does it matter if i am always assumed to be the latter?)
his mouth opens, a black hole that has swallowed my popcorn chicken and ex-boyfriend's cum. for once it releases rather than consumes; "i'm sorry, cheri --"
i slam the fridge door shut. "don't steal my shit."
he winces, forcefully. like one might when experiencing whiplash or a whips lash. then nods, slow, rubbing the back of his neck, gaze pin pointed on the floor the all the while.
all my sharp edges soften. and i let out a sigh before i say, "shit, art. just don't touch my stuff."
he lifts his head. beneath his eyes are ultraviolet circles. his hands are fidgity, carbon atoms unwilling to stay still. in other words, art stands like an electric current is constantly running through him, like he's a free radical compound ready to give you skin cancer or some shit like that.
"art, you okay?" i say, peering at him the way a mother might.
(i wouldn't know though. i don't have one of my own).
he doesn't respond.
i snap my fingers in his face this time. "WHITE BOY," i blare.
he's quiet when he says, "i'm not white."
i scoff. "then what are you? rachel dolezal?"
he shakes his head, biting at his lip until it draws blood.
he licks it away, before he says, "my mum is carribean. my dad is caucasian. i'm not white."
i feel like i've been punched in the gutt. first sage. now art.
(i'm such a presumptuous dick no wonder i hate myelf).
"we'll fuck, art. i didn't know."
he nods. but he isn't looking at me rather through me. "i'm sorry i ate your food, cheri. and to answer your earlier question. i'm fine. i just haven't slept in a while and i don't know where otto put the weed."
he bites at his nails (or rather what is left of them), and circles the kitchen for what i assume is not the first time this evening.
whilst i remain frozen in place because art isn't actually "a ratchet white boy" like i assumed him to be and if i were paying attention to anything other than my own rage, i would have noticed the texture of his hair gives that very fact away.
as i continue watching i notice the way he figdets not like a criminal but like he's something diagnosable (maybe adhd or social axienty.) plus he's kinda cute in the silverly glow of our dim-lit kitchen. (did you mean? i no longer want to press charges).
"well i can't find it," he says and i'm snapped back to reality. "night, cheri. i'm sorry about your food. i'll buy you some more later in the week to properly apologise."
then he's gone. returned to whatever foreign land from wence he came.
and i am still an ebony skinned-girl. stood in the middle of a kitchen, barely clothed, holding on tight to my only lover; a mostly empty kfc bucket.
(did you mean? i am mostly empty ebony skinned-girl).
--
a/n
sorry for the late update. uni is starting again, i've just moved in and i have no WiFi at this moment in time.
i like comments so if you have any to spare they'd be much appreciated.
